


The Prelude

by Paradise_Found



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Barisi - Freeform, Bisexual, Bisexuality, M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:13:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8809213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradise_Found/pseuds/Paradise_Found
Summary: Occurs between the end of season 17 and the start of season 18, refers to season 18, episode 3 where Carisi has an interview with the Brooklyn DA’s office.





	1. Dinner At My Place

“What are you looking at?” Carisi sees Fin smiling at himself in his chair while staring at his phone. The usually serious detective grins, his teeth shine under the fluorescent lights of the squad room.

 

“Ken just sent me a picture of my grandson.” Fin proudly shows Carisi the black and white picture of the ultrasound. “It’s their second ultrasound and he said that everything is going well. I can’t wait to meet this little dude.” Fin grins some more at Carisi. 

 

“Congratulations.” Carisi says as he sits down by the chair beside Fin’s desk. His hand burns from the hot coffee he’s holding. He places the cup down on Fin’s desk and studies the other man sitting in front of him. Fin’s eyes, full of overflowing emotion, accompany the permanent grin that has now carved wrinkles on his cheeks. 

 

“You know, life’s not been easy for Ken. Usually the son looks up to the father, but for us it’s the other way around. I am just so proud of how strong he is.” Fin says without looking up at Carisi.

 

“You had a hand in his resilience.” Carisi replies with a soft tone. 

 

The two detectives sit in silence. Each person has a past, that much was clear to Carisi after years of working as a police officer; to judge a book by its cover is the greatest sin. Carisi retrieves his hot coffee and stands to return to his desk.

 

“This job.” Fin states firmly at Carisi “You think it’s everything, but it’s not.” Fin’s damp eyes look up at him with honesty. 

 

“I know.” Carisi smiles.

 

“I hope that in time, you’ll find someone that you’ll want to go home to.” Fin’s eyes seem to probe at the inner sanctum of Carisi’s mind, inching deeper and deeper to extract the truth underneath years of buried deception. 

 

Carisi dodges Fin’s stares and looks around the empty squad room then down at his coffee in his hand. His black reflection searches his face; a little lost and a little empty. His watch chirps at him and wakes him out of his self reflection. Someone texted, he turns his wrist to see the notification.

 

“Shit.” A torrent of black coffee pours over Carisi’s torso and his desk, leaving barely any drops in the cup. He sighs in his own absent mindedness while Fin chuckles in his seat, taking in the comedic response to Fin’s interrogation. 

 

“Man, you need to learn to hide your nerves better Carisi.” Fin hands him some paper towels from the break room. 

 

“I’m not nervous.” Carisi protests while he wipes himself with paper towels that’s already been soaked in the coffee that flooded his desk.

 

“Uh-huh. Just go to the washroom and clean up.” Fin suggests out of hopelessness watching Carisi clean himself while making a bigger mess. 

 

***

 

Carisi frantically pats at his shirt and tsks at his reflection in the mirror. His watch chirps again to notify him of unread texts. Carisi turns off the tap and reads the small font on his watch.

 

_I need to talk to you. Not in the precinct or my office.  
Dinner at 7:30? My place. _

 

The texts multiply in Carisi’s eyes. He reads it over and over again, making sure that he has not missed a single letter. Barba’s peculiar statement about wanting to talk to him, but not in his office or the precinct makes Carisi’s blood run hot and fast, his every pulse point overused. He steadies himself against the sink so he doesn't trip over in excitement. He slowly makes his way out of the washroom and walks towards his desk, going over how exactly he should reply back, each word teased, each punctuation perfected. 

 

He sits at his desk, holding his phone like a it’s the only thing that will bring him salvation. He taps to unlock the black screen and composes slowly with his thumbs.

 

_Sure._

 

He sends the one worded text off, wondering if that was enough, or maybe he should’ve written more than just a “sure”. Carisi stares at the screen, as if Barba would reply instantly. 

 

_See you soon._

 

A little drunk on the amount of texts he’s gotten from Barba in the span of 10 minutes. He looks around the deserted squad room, Fin is on his phone talking to someone, his voice firm and stoic. Carisi swims in his own giddiness, a little light headed, he dreams what Barba would want to talk to him about that was so sensitive that he openly invited him over for dinner. He grins deliriously at his own daydreams.

 

“Hey, you don’t mind if I leave early right?” Carisi raises his voice at the other detective sitting on the other side of the squad room.

 

“You got a hot date?” Fin replies as his phone conversation ends.

 

“Uh no, I just gotta go do..something.” Carisi fidgets in his seat.

 

“Right, your watch was going off and now you gotta leave early to do something.” Fin examines Carisi as he sits in silence, unable to come up with another lie to defer Fin’s curiosity. “Don’t you have somewhere to be Carisi? Get outta here.” Carisi looks up at Fin with a dimpled smile. 

 

“Thanks Fin.” Carisi gathers his jacket, wallet and phone and sprints to the elevator.

 

***

_Shoulda taken a taxi._ Carisi pouts at his own mistake, he overestimated how fast he could walk while not overly exerting himself in order to minimize the sweat stains on his now clean, coffee-less shirt. He races past the glistening lights on the streets, the streams of headlights on the roads and the music blasting from each shop with one purpose locked in his mind; Barba.


	2. Preparation

Barba moves around his kitchen tentatively, as if the only thing he ever uses his kitchen for is to make coffees in the morning. His kitchen is untouched, other than his coffee maker and the one cup he uses over and over. A fine layer of dust has settled on some of appliances out on display. At this moment, he is standing over his stove, his granite countertop covered with takeout boxes. He takes each box and empties it on a clean plate. He inspects the plate first for possible smudges, carefully pours the food out onto the plate, then rearranges it as it would have been presented by the actual chef who prepared the feast. 

 

His dining table, usually littered with paperwork from cases which are now hidden on his bookshelves, is decorated simply with a candle in the middle and utensils on brand new napkins on either sides. Dinner for two at his own dining table; a rare event in Barba’s life. He usually eats his dinner out of takeout boxes at work while reading over case files in order to multitask. 

 

He carefully sets the food filled plates into his slightly warmed oven, completely pristine and unused. This food is not worthy of the microwave, unlike the greasy fares he usually settles for. He stands before his closed oven with the food now warming with each second passing. Barba takes his hand to his chin in contemplation, and then decides against his own thoughts and moves back from the oven and peeks from the window of the oven door.

 

Barba inspects his apartment, messy enough to show that possibly one person lives here, albeit part time; one slightly askewed book on his coffee table, one flat, unfluffed cushion on his couch and a dim light from inside his bedroom with the door mostly closed. He looks down at himself, his outfit is spotless from emptying takeout boxes. His gray sweater hugs his bare skin underneath. The luxurious soft cashmere is a necessary change from the restricting three piece suites he wears to work. His jeans, something he almost never gets to wear, takes a little getting used to as he tugs at his legs. His barefeet grounds him with his hardwood floor. 

 

He looks at the clock. The detective is running late. Barba takes out a bottle of whiskey and pours some into a glass. He settles into a chair while sipping at his drink. He watches the clock as the second hand slowly rotates once, twice, three times.

**Author's Note:**

> This particular story is a part of a series, more chapters to come. All of my stories regarding the pair are connected together, no one offs unless specified. Thanks for reading!


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